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Poems of Klondyke's Early Days 

and 

Alaska's Long White Trail 

by 
Fred Crewe v 



Photos of the Klondyke Stampede 
taken in 1897-98 



Printed by 

The North American Press 

Milwaukee, Wis. 



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"COME WITH ME NOW AND I'LL TAKE YOU ALONG" 



The Klondyke Stampede - 



THE KLONDYKE STAMPEDE. 




**d*^Hk 




Pome with me now and I'll take you along 

o'er Chilcoot, the lakes and the mighty Yukon, 
The Canyon and Whitehorse we'll shoot in grand style 

and go like a streak through swift Thirty-mile; 
So just fall in line with dogs, sled and sail, 

with the stampeding bunch on the Dyea trail, 
I'll take the geepole, but perhaps, instead, 

you better take it and I'll mush ahead. 




"THAT CLIMBS THE TRAIL THAT STANDS ON END" 



The Klondyke Stampede 2 



It's just about dark when we get to Sheep Camp — 

the scene of the big snowslide — 
Where sixty or more in the bat of an eye 

went over the Big Divide; 
We keep on going and reach the Scales 

a little before midnight, 
And the moon's silv'ry beams are pouring in streams 

o'er Chilcoot's scowling height. 

We fall in line with the crowd next day, 

with our packs we slowly go, 
Up the slippery trail to the Summit 

half hid in the blinding snow 
In single file we swing along 

and soon we strike the stride, 
That climbs the trail that stands on end 

against the mountain side. 

Another day and the last pack's up 

and then we bid adieu, 
To the Stars and Stripes and old Chilcoot 

and skies of leaden hue; 
The Mounted Police don't keep us long — 

just a glance at our stuff they take — 
Then barking and bounding the dogs tear off 

down the slope into Crater Lake, 




SUMMIT OF CHILCOOT 



The Klondyke Stampede • 



On and on o'er the ice we skim, 

our sail bellied out in the breeze, 
And we know when we come to timber line 

by the scrub and the stunted trees; 
Through the winding canyon we "gee" and "haw,' 

and it's well into the day, 
When we see smoke whip the frosty air 

from tents not far away. 

Under the fanciful-twisted trees 

we halt and take down sail, 
For a sight was never more welcome 

than the smoke on this wind-swept trail ; 
It's away again next morning, 

and we're blind from snow and sun, 
When we tangle up among the tents 

on the shore of Lindemann. 

We whipsaw lumber and build a boat 

and start with it on the sled, 
But the ice is rotten and we give it up 

ere we get a mile ahead ; 
So it's back again to the old camp ground, 

and we hav'nt any doubt, 
But what we'll have to rubber round there 

until the ice goes out. 




"AS WE TANGLE UP AMONG THE TEXTS" 



The Klondyke Stampede ■ 




A t last one night when the moon is bright 

and the stars are all a twinkle, 
And the slush-ice from the canyon above 

slips by with its musical jingle, 
We shove off into the shadowy lake, 

and long ere break of day, 
The tents and sounds of Lindemann 

are left far. far away. 




"ON THROUGH THE LAKE AND WE REACH ONE-MILE" 



The Klondyke Stampede - 



On through the lake and we reach One-mile, 

which is swift as the tailrace of Hell, 
And we dart in and cut between sweepers and recks 

and wrecks strewn around pell mell; 
A snag rips up a boat ahead 

and as we go tearing by, 
We catch a glimpse of drowning men 

and hear their stifled cry. 

At Bennett we stay a little while 

and cook a bite to eat. 
Then off again in the freshening breeze 

with the rest of the comical fleet ; 
We sail along the tented shore 

till the wind flops round and dies, 
Or sneaks away in the crimson clouds 

crisscrossing the golden skies. 

Our campfires roar and blaze that night, 

and in their smouldering glow, 
Just as soon as we fall asleep 

someone shouts "It's time to go;" 
So we pack our blankets back on board 

and push off the muddy beach, 
Into the lake all dotted with boats 

as far as the eye can reach. 




•INTO THE LAKE ALL, POTTED WITH BOAT! 



The Klondyke Stampede ■ 



And like a big, red ball of fire 

the sun rolls through the smoky sky, 
While sundogs blaze all round him 

as he climbs the hills nearby; 
We drift together and chew the rag 

and are swapping lots of lies 
About the girls we've met on the trail — 

their overalls and eyes — 

When the wind sweeps down from the soggy clouds 

and we're bowling along again, 
Past Cariboo Crossing and Windy Arm 

in hail and sleet and rain; 
The whitecaps slap against our bows 

and we're froze to the bone almost, 
When we haul down our sail by a big camp fire 

on the beach at Tagish Post. 



The police go through our outfit 

as soon as we land that night, 
And a minute or two's sufficient 

to make everything all right; 
We paint our number on the boat 

and dry our streaming clothes, 
While boats pull in by hundreds 

and sail away in droves. 



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1 J^i \}'M m 



TAGISH POST 



The Klondyke Stampede ■ 



From Tagish, then, next morning, 

through Lake Marsh all the way, 
We drift about in circles 

as all becalm 'd we lay; 
We hold wet fingers in the air — 

whistle for a breeze to come — 
As half asleep we row along 

in the glare of the noonday sun. 

Then in a moment all is changed — 

we rub our eyes and stare — 
For a hundred feet above us 

the lake's dangling in the air; 
We rest upon our oars a spell 

and can't believe our eyes, 
When we see ourselves up in the clouds 

stampeding through the skies. 




"AND THIS LAKE GI10WS HTJIANGELY SILENT' 



The Klondykb Stampede ■ 



The flickering panorama 

keeps unfolding all the while, 
And we see the flash of tossing oars 

way down on Thirty-mile; 
We spy the tents among the trees 

where Lebarge and the river meet, 
And a quiver in the stagnant air 

threatens wreck to the phantom fleet. 

We cut all kinds of didos — 

hoist sails and let them drop — 
All mimic'd in the heavens 

till the word goes round to stop; 
And the lake grows strangely silent 

as we view the mirage go, 
And see it gently crumple 

like a dream in a picture show. 



Still not a catspaw do we get, 

it's pull, pull all the while, 
Until we strike the current 

when half down Sixty-mile; 
Swiftly then we slip along 

and as we dodge a screaming snag, 
We see the danger signal — 

the wave of the blood-red flag. 











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MILES CANYON 



The Klondyke Stampede 9 



And men are running on the rocks 

all shouting warning cries, 
For the Canyon's now before us 

and our boat it fairly flies, 
And though we pull towards the shore 

we've no hopes of getting there, 
Till o'er our bows a heaving line 

falls swishing through the air. 



We make it fast and quickly 

swing-to in midstream, 
And the water boils around us 

like a lot of frothy cream; 
We're haul'd into the eddy — 

and unbending the heaving line- 
Shake hands with the ragged bunch 

who caught us just in time. 



The Klondyke Stampede 10 



On top of the mossy bluffs next day 

we watch many boats go through, 
That look like kindergarten toys 

in the haze and misty blue; 
They swing around the headland, 

in rotation one by one, 
A minute in the rapid 

and the dreaded Canyon's run. 

We see enough of this bugaboo 

to dispel some haunting fears, 
And echoes from the noisy Squaw 

now beat upon our ears ; 
We follow the muddy trail along 

to where the Whitehorse roars, 
And squirms and topsiturvies 

between its narrow shores. 

We sit down on the weather'd rocks 

and watch the boats go by, 
And a dozen or more flit by us 

in the twinkling of an eye; 
We see them toss and tumble, 

spin round and ricochet 
Into the swirling dipoff 

where they almost fade away. 



The Kloxdyke Stampede 11 



Over the beaten trail back to the eddy, 

through forests of spruce and pine, 
We get to the tent very tired 

just about supper time, 
And though we listen throughout the evening 

to story, mouth-organ and song, 
The roar of the rapids linger 

in our ears the whole night long. 



It's blowing a gale next morning 

when we pull out and dart away, 
Into the jaws of the Canyon, 

wet with the flying spray; 
The wind beats down upon us — 

the bore's as white as snow — 
And we can hardly see before us 

when we strike the undertow. 




WHITEHORSE RAPIDS 



The Klondike Stampede - 



We make for where the suctions meet — 

the wickedest place of all — 
And on the crests of the racing waves 

toss like a rubber ball ; 
Through clots of flying froth and foam 

we're hurtld through the air, 
While curling waves leap o'er our bows 

and try to swamp us there. 



But soon the Canyon's left behind 

and now for quite a spell, 
We slip through easier water 

bobbing up and down the swell ; 
We reel down through Squaw Rapids — 

hobnob with rocks and shoals — 
Then headlong into the chasm 

where the thundering Whitehorse rolls. 

One moment and we're out again, 

bow pointing at the sky, 
And rainbows dance along the rocks 

as we drench them going by; 
We sweep down o'er the combers 

in clouds of tinted spray, 
And strike the head of Lake Lebarge 

in the twilight of the day. 



The Klondyke Stampede 13 




mmHtttltmmmmmmmmmmmmiKti 



Through the moon's frisky sheen on the water, 

with a breeze both steady and fair, 
We sail to the tented island, 

blood-red in the campfire's glare — 
The dim, faint light of coming dawn 

finds us once more on the lake, 
With the wind trailing on behind us 

and bubbles streaming in our wake. 



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WjB^JKHKHBfto^**^ 4 - , 







"THE DIM, FAIXT LIGHT OF COMING DAWN" 



The Klondyke Stampede 14 



Soon it gets to blowing hard — 

the sky turns black as coal — 
Far off we see the lightning flash 

and hear the thunder roll ; 
We heed the shouts going up all round 

to hurry and take in sail, 
And in a cloud of yellow dust 

we're swept before the gale. 

In gathering gloom the storm comes down 

and day turns into night, 
Save when the lightning splits the skies 

and floods the lake with light. 
It's then we see the big, red bluffs — 

and going to beat the band — 
We toss along the rocky shore 

looking for a place to land. 

In the lee of a bluff the wind sweeps us, 

and the opportune moment we seize, 
Of jumping off waist-deep in water 

on the beach neath the groaning trees; 
Here our fires burn till morning — 

the storm dying out meanwhile — 
And the blue sky smiles upon us 

as we spin down Thirty-mile. 




FIVE FINGERS 



The Klondyke Stampede - 



Between -rocks and shoals, round bends and bars, 

we scramble on our way, 
And Thirty-mile's as good as pass'd 

before it's noon that day; 
and when the twilight ccmes and goes 

and the stars begin to glimmer, 
We're floating proudly on our way 

along the Lewis river. 

Past Salmon, Eig and Little, 

we silently drift along, 
Though sometimes over the water 

come snatches of music and song; 
Swifter and swifter the current gets — 

Five Fingers ccmes in sight — 
And echoes try to drown our shouts 

to keep over to the right. 

Strung out in Indian fashion 

twixt the two big rocks we dart, 
And Five Fingers lays behind us 

before we barely start; 
Like a lot of ducks we skid along 

close to the river's brink. 
And mistake for distant thunder 

the booming of the Rink. 



The Klondyke Stampede 16 



By Rink Rapids tangled waters, 

through noise and showers of spray, 
Like shadows we flit that evening 

borne swift on our fanciful way, 
We follow one after the other — 

a hundred yards between — 
And the noise gets lost in the silence 

we meet further down the stream. 

And we're almost down to Pelly 

when we hoist our sail again, 
To catch some little catspaws 

we see playing in the rain; 
They're very, very gentle, 

still they help us get along, 
And the water gurgles by our boat 

when we strike the mighty Yukon. 

On and on, along banks and bends, 

past bluffs and islands and bars, 
Sleeping by day in the burning sun 

and at night 'neath the twinkling stars; 
Thinking of the days gone by 

and the golden ones to come, 
and what we're going to be up against 

in the Land of the Mignight Sun. 




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. -i i mi iwi— wta 



"AND AS WE ROUND A HIGH, STEEP BLUFF" 



The Klondykk Stampede 17 



There's a stampede on at Stewart 

and rumors fly around, 
That five-dollar pans and ten-dollar pans 

are scattered all over the ground; 
At Henderson there's another 

and we're almost tempted to stay 
When someone shows us a handful of gold 

that he swore he got in a day. 

But the spell of the Klondyke's upon us — , 

we've lain in the trance too long — 
So with a wave of the hand and a shake of the head 

we keep on down the Yukon; 
And as we round a high, steep bluff, 

almost touching the turquoise skies, 
The magic city of our dreams 

spreads out before our eyes. 

Through mist and spray and sunshine, 

through the current swift and strong. 
O'er Klondyke's flashing waters 

we send our boat along; 
Misgivings no longer confront us — 

visions of fortune come fast — 
And I'm leaving you now to make one 

for we've got to Dawson at last. 



The Kobvk Maipen 1 



THE KOI3UK MAIDEN. 



\\There the sun shines bright at midnight 

all through the month of June, 
Where the winter sun sheds twilight 

on the snow and ice at noon, 
Liv'd a dusky, dark-eye'd maiden 

with heart all free from care, 
For she thought not of the morrow 

as she ate her salmon rare; 
Her hands and feet were dainty — 

she could sing the Mission's psalms — 
Though a little soap and water 

would have added to her charms; 
She could run before her dog team 

and laugh with childish glee — 
And the waters of the Kobuk 

rippled onward to the sea. 



The Kobtjk Maiden - 



She could paddle her small kyak, 

she could trail the fox and bear, 
She could dry the meat for winter, 

she could hunt and fish and snare; 
She was handy with the needle — 

no furrier in his trade — 
Could sew a beat or patch a skin 

like this bright-eyed little maid; 
She had very few acccmplishments — 

she seldom wiped her nose — 
And the odor of her mukluks 

resembled not the rose ; 
She had many dark admirers, 

but she heeded not their plea — 
And the waters of the Kobuk 

rippled onward to the sea. 



The Kobuk Maiden - - 



She was neither tall nor slender 

as the poet's verses tell, 
She'd have been far more attractive 

if she'd had a different smell; 
She dress'd in skins of animals 

and wherever she would roam, 
Many tiny little creatures 

would make her clothes their heme; 
Don't lay this up against her 

for she had never seen 
Pears soap or insect powder, 

fine comb or Cameline; 
No high-born lady in the land 

had a warmer heart than she — 
And the waters of the Kobuk 

rippled onward to the sea. 



The Koijuk Maiden 



When the Kotzebue excitement 

brought a crowd of miners there, 
There was a sport among them 

who'd blue eyes and sorrel hair, 
He was smitten with this lady 

and he was often seen, 
Hanging round her little igloo 

which was anything but clean; 
Of course it doesn't matter, 

but I never heard him tell, 
How he became accustomed 

to its peculiar smell; 
He brought her flour and sugar, 

and hams and beans and tea — 
And the waters of the Kobuk 

rippled onward to the sea. 



The Koetjk Maiden 5 



When the sun came back in summer 

and the winter storms were spent, 
And the miners left the country 

where they hadn't made a cent, 
Empty cabins, rude reminders 

of the days of '99, 
Stood all along the river 

mid stumps of spruce and pine, 
In her now-deserted igloo 

sits the maiden all forlorn, 
"Kabloona kow-kow peluk," 

all the white man's grub is gone, 
A blue-eye'd little papoose 

she's holding on her knee — 
And the waters of the Kobuk 

ripple onward to the sea. — Anon. 





MIDNIGHT SUN AT KEEWAL1K SPIT — JUNE 21 



Ot R NORTHIRN LIGHTS - - - 



OUR NORTHERN LIGHT* 




Streaming o'er the arch of heaven 

in blazing sheets of green, 
Twining round the mountain tops 

in wreaths of satiny sheen, 
Dangling in crinkly ribbons 

of fantastic curve and twist, 
Raining streams of brilliants 

from clouds of shimmering mist. 



Our Northern Lights - - - 



Drooping in gorgeous clusters 

of rosy, lace-like light, 
Folding and unfolding 

at each breath of the frosty night. 
Swaying in dainty festoons 

from the dancing stars on high, 
Bursting in showers of spangles 

all o'er the painted sky. 
Gliding in folds of tinted flame 

that set the hills aglow, 
Rolling billows of color 

across the glistening snow, 
Flashing streams of silv'ry light 

on shadows far away, 
Hunting for the telltale streaks 

that pilot in the day, 
Tossing, tumbling and rolling — 

when night is almost gone — 
In tinted spray they drift away 

in the dim of the flickering dawn. 



"Klondyke Valentine" ■ 



A KLONDYKE VALENTINE. 



'"Tonight as I sit in the Klondyke vale, 

My fancy takes flight over river and rail, 
To where in those halcyon days gone by 
We were together — you and I — 
And I find myself wishing to God that you. 
In your faraway home under skies of blue, 
Often think of the boy who so longs for the sight 
Of your beautiful eyes — 

and your kisses tonight. 




MOOSEHIDE HANGING BY MORTE H. CRAIG 



'Klondyke Valentine." 



I light my tobacco, its powers invoke, 

And presto! your astral shines out of the smoke, 

A face of sweet beauty, a form of rare grace, 

Half hidden by billows of shadowy lace; 

You hover above me, O vision divine, 

And your dear, dreamy soul passes quickly to mine. 

So I sit here and silently long for the sight 

Of your beautiful eyes — 

and your kisses tonight. 

A rich, mellow perfume, while memories roll, 

Brings the flavor of age to the wine in my soul ; 

You fill up the glass, dainty sweetheart of mine, 

And I feel like a man who is drunken with wine; 

Your soft, gentle voice pulses down thro' the air. 

And I thrill with the thought that it murmurs a prayer- 

A prayer for the boy who so longs for the sight 

Of your beautiful eyes — 

and your kisses tonight. 



"Klokdyke Valentine" 3 



On the breast of your astral, oh, lady o' mine, 

Let me pin with a nugget my heart's valentine; 

That the gold in the Klondyke in naught can compare 

With the velvety meshes of gold in your hair, 

The wine of your breath and the touch of your hand 

Seals my senses in sleep in this shadowy land; 

I slumber, and sleeping I long for the sight 

Of your beautiful eyes — 

and your kisses tonight. 

— Mojte H. Craig. 





MIDNIGHT BASEBALL GAJIE, FAIRBANKS, JUNE 21 



Thirty Years in Alaska - 



THIRTY YEARS IN ALASKA. 



I hirty years up here in Alaska, 

in the spell of this magical land. 
Delving with pick, pan and shovel, 

grey-hair'd and wrinkled and tann'd; 
Growing old and feeble and cranky, 

broken down with the hard, restless life, 
Cursing the fateful blunder I made 

when I shook my chorus-girl wife — 
Who was pretty as a picture — 

and though I've never wrote a line 
To the golden-hair'd girl who bade me farewell 

with her little hand in mine, 
Not a single day has pass'd sin ce then 

but what was a regret 
For the girl I left behind me 

who I swore I'd ne'er forget. 



Thirty Years in Alaska - 



Thirty years up here in Alaska — 

the turquoise of its skies — 
Keeps me always thinking 

of the blue in her dancing eyes, 
And off in the silent cabin 

as the shadows come and go, 
I fall asleep and dream of the girl- 

my chum of the long ago — 
I live the old days over 

and can't hold back a sigh, 
As with her arms around my neck 

she tries to smile goodbye — 
I hear the songs she used to sing, 

though far away they seem, 
And wake to hear the echoes 

pass with the fleeting dream. 



Thirty Years in Alaska 3 



Emblematic flower of Alaska. 



Thirty years up here in Alaska — 

where the *forgetmenots grow — 
Where roses bloom on the hillsides 

as the sun melts off the snow; 
Where in the good old summertime 

the birds sing night and day. 
And on frosty nights the Northern Lights 

hang round the stars and play, 
Memories all come trooping back 

of the one I still hold dear, 
And it always seems to me somehow 

I feel her presence near. 
And I wonder as the years roll by 

and I go sliding down the hill — 
I wonder if the boy she lov'd 

lives in her memory still? 




DAWSON IN EARLY DAYS 



Ki.ondyke Reminiscences ■ 



KLONDYKE REMINISCENCES. 




J stood on the Ogilvie bridge one night 
where the Klondyke swiftly flows, 

And wonder'd if ever I'd make a strike 
in this land of frost and snows? 

I thought of the thousands who tramp'd the trail 

bsnt down with a heavy pack, 
Of where the devil they'd all gone to 

and if they'd ever come back. 




•LIKEWISE TO GET OUR MAIL" 



Klondyke Reminiscences ■ 



How we used to line up to record a claim, 

likewise to get our mail ; 
Of the mosquitos and flies that ate us alive 

mushing the swampy trail. 

Of the malamutes deck'd with plumes and bells, 
that raced through the streets like Hell ; 

Of tjhe awful messes, they used to eat 
and their darn'd unearthly yell. 

Of the mad stampedes we all went on 

like a lot of bewilder'd geese; 
Of the blood-red coats and yellow stripes 

of the Northwest Mounted Police. 



Of their cowboy hats and tasseled boots, 

brass buttons and gold lace; 
Of the Grand Panjandrum twirling his cane 

as he strutted from place to place. 




"OP THEIR COWBOY HATS AND TASSELED BOOTS" 



Ki.ondyke Reminiscences ■ 



Of the bugle calls heard through the frosty air 

when all was calm and still ; 
Of the flapjacks nail'd on cabin doors 

and the virtues of "Swiftwater " Bill. 

Of the pokes we handed the sports at the bars 

who levied a little on each; 
Of the chechacos haggling with "Waterfront" Brown 

about the rent of their tents on the beach. 

Of men and horses loaded with gold 

that were always passing by; 
*Of the dogs jumping into the Yukon 

when we kept up the Fourth of July. 

Of "Sev.'-come-'leven," and "Little Joe," 

and "Hit it again" all night; 
Of the piano's bang and the violins twang 

and the juicy waltz at its height. 



* Hundreds of dogs were so scared by the rifle firing that day 
that they jumped into the Yukon and were drowned. 




DANCE HALL IN DAWSON 



Klondyke Reminiscences 4 



Of the Ccaloil Johnnies swilling champagne, 

cf the diamonds the fairies wore; 
Of the moccascn'd mushers around the stoves 

and the dogs slinking in at the door. 

Of the nuggets we used to fling dow n en the stage 

at the dancer's twinkling feet; 
Of the burning thirst she always had 

whenever we chane'd to meet. 

Of the roulette wheels and the blackjack games 

and the rattle of ivory chips; 
Of the dance-hall girls at "Nigger'' Jim's 

and the pout upon their lips. 

Of the moral spasms that hit the town 

and sent her down the lie; 
Of the psalms and prayers we get instead 

of the days of Auld Lang Syne. 




OLD MOUNTED POLICE BARRACKS IN DAWSON 



Kloxdyke Reminiscences ■ 



Of the high old times we sure did have 
when everything came our way; 

Of Dawson as she used to be 
and the joke she is today. 





EARLY FOOTBRIDGE ACROSS KLONDYKE 



The Yaek of the Faro-Ban t k Dealer 1 




THE YARN OF 
THE FARO BANK DEALER 



" f low is it I'm not dealing tonight?" 

said the old Sport as he lit a cigar, 
"Well, it's because every year this day comes round 

I'm thinking of Belle Lamar — 
Beautiful Belle with the golden hair 

and eyes and lashes of jet, 
Was a dainty little dance-hall girl, 
the nicest I ever met. 



The Yarn of the Faro-Bank Dealer - 



"At a masquerade ball many years ago, 

in a mining camp thriving today, 
She came and raised her domino 

and sat down at my table to play — 
Tm leaving for home in the morning, she said, 

with eyes and cheeks aflame, 
'And I've just had a hunch 1 can make a bunch 

of money at this old game. 

" 'It's farewell to the life, forever with me; 

farewell to the dance and the wine ; 
But hardly farewell to you, old friend, 

who I'll be thinking of most of the time; 
Yes! I feel a bit sorry to go away, 

but — the Queen's a case, you say — 
I'll play the wench for all she's worth — 

please copper that bet on the tray'. 

'The hunch was a pippin for two or three turns, 

then she kept losing stack after stack, 
And when she spoke and said she was broke, 

I gave her a hundred back; 
But I knew her heart was breaking 

as she rose to quit the game. 
And it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her 

she could have it all again. 



The Yarn of the Faro-Bank Dealer 



"When she snatch'd a gun from Ye Wah Lun, 

who stood a little apart, 
There was a flash and a roar and she sank to the floor, 

with a bullet through the heart; 
And as the crowd open'd up around her — 

on the lap of 'Bronco' Moll — 
I saw steal o'er the lovely face 

the waxy look of a doll. 

"I handed over her wallet 

when the girls asked me to 'come through,' 
And the hundred she'd left on the table 

1 handed that over, too — 
In the wallet there was nearly ten thousand, 

a ring and an ivory comb, 
And in one of the little side pockets 

the ticket she'd bought for home." 



The Stranded Sourdough 1 



THE STRANDED SOURDOUGH. 




Y\ /henever I 'm on the beach at Nome 

My thoughts belong to the time 
When I chased the golden Will-o' the-Wisp 

between Barrow and Cape Sabine — 
How I pann'd and pann'd the ruby sand 

when the tides were high and low, 
And waited in vain for the fickle dame 

to smile on this old Sourdough. 



The Stranded Sourdoikih - 



I see the grinding ice again 

toss high in the bright sunshine, 
And glaciers veil d in spangled mist 

play tag in the flashing brine; 
I see the summer slip away 

when the North wind starts to blow, 
And listen to the seagull's scream 

goodbye to this old Sourdough. 

I tramp'd that beach from dawn till dark 

in snowstorm, calm and gale, 
Trying to make myself believe 

I saw a distant sail, 
Not a glimpse, however, did I get 

and all hopes of going below, 
Died in every wave that broke 

at the feet of this old Sourdough. 



That winter was a hundred years 

of visions, fogs and fears — 
The droning silence even yet 

is pulsing in my ears — 
I dubb'd it the Land of Makebelieve, 

and in the whale-oil's glow, 
Talk'd to my shadow on the wall 

and thought it an old Sourdough. 



The Stranded Sourdough 3 



I'd sit and watch the Northern Lights 

gambol in the sky 
And oft at times I'd seem to hear 

a murmur or a sigh; 
I'd watch these pictures in the clouds 

drifting to and fro, 
Till they'd fade away in the Milky Way 

from the ken of this old Sourdough. 

I'd stare at the painted heavens — 

stare at them nights and days — 
And my faith in Revelations 

grew stronger as I gazed, 
And this with the sickening silence, 

the cold and the blinding snow, 
Never fail'd to get the goat 

of this stranded old Sourdough. 

But the seagulls and the ruby sand 

and the waves rolling in from the sea, 
On the beach of that shadowy Wonderland 

have no further charms for me; 
They re calling, ever calling, 

but I'll never be tempted to go 
As long as that jigger on the wall 

haunts the dreams of this old Sourdough. 




STAMPEDERS 



The Flobadoea • 



THE FLORADORA. 



T 



his is the old Floradora, 

where many and many a time, 
Hand in hand with the thirsty beauties 

we've all gone down the line; 
It's the night of the Frisco Earthquake Fund 

that most of us recall, 
And Fancy lands me back again 

on the floor of the old dance hall. 



The Floradora - - 



I whirl through many a juicy waltz 

with Margie, Kate and Bess, 
And stake them all to play the wheel 

with a ten-spot — more or less — 
I quench the burning thirst they have 

with cocktails, beer and wine, 
Till they shake me for some other sport 

who goes swiftly down the line. 

I hear the swish of silken skirts 

and "Ham-Grease" Jimmies bawl, 
Watch Lottie Oatley's twinkling feet 

and listen to Fannie Hall ; 
I see the crowds rush to the bar 

and hoist their fancy drinks. 
While I hit the high spots some myself 

with a bediamon'd little minx. 

I slip away at break of day 

mid strains of music clear, 
And bursts of song and laughter 

running riot in my ear, 
I linger just outside the door — 

bewitch'd it seems to me — 
With the lilting strains in the frosty air 

of "Sweet Bessie the Maid of Dundee." 



The Floradoka 3 



It's hard to forget the old dance hall — 

its wine and women and song — 
Where 1 monkey'd with roulette and blackjack 

and anything coming along; 
I often think of that festive night 

and the rollicking bunch on the floor, 
When we boosted the Frisco Fund over the top 

some fifteen hundred or more. 

So "Here's to the Floradora 

and the giddy dance-hall days — 

Not forgetting the little fairies 
with their peculiar ways — " 

Upon their pictur'd faces 
memory loves to dwell, 

But as that's all there's to it 

I may as well say farewell 






SUN DOGS ON THE KLONDYKE JUST ABOVE MOUTH OF BONANZA 



Ovek Chilcoot in '97 1 



OVER CHILCOOT JN '37. 



Tn the month of March in '97 
With sled and a blanket sail, 
I found myself at dawn of day 
On the wind-swept Dyea trail. 
For many a mile I slipp'd along 
O'er ice as slick as glass, 
And the moon was crossing the Summit 
When I got to the foot of the Pass. 



Over Ciiilcoot in '97 2 



I roll'd up in the sail that night 
For blankets were somewhat shy, 
And on the sled soon fell asleep 
Counting stars in the fathomless sky — 
I woke in the gaudy moonlight 
Bewitching the night to day, 
In a fairy land more wondrous 
Than I dreamt about on the sleigh. 

Half dead with cold I take a pack 

And warm up very soon 

Climbing Chilcoot in the glamor and glow 

And glare of the cockey'd moon; 

I sit down on the ice-cut steps 

To fix the wobbly load, 

And on a stick pick'd up on the Summit 

Slid back to the sleigh a la mode. 



Sundogs blazed on the mountain tops 
And rainbows ribb'd the sky, 
When I lash'd the last pack on the sled 
And waved Chilcoot goodbye, 
But I'd no sooner took the geepole 
Than snow and sleet and hail 
Combined to bid me welcome 
Upon the Dawson trail. 



Over Chii.coot in '97 



They quit me at the "Cutoff," 
The one we used to take, 
Where we went a mile a minute 
Through the drifts to Crater Lake; 
Far out upon the lake I glide 
And where I stopp'd 1 could see, 
Down in the ice a man with a pack 
Who seem'd to be looking at me. 

Both pick and shovel had gone astray 
In the drifts I'd just come through. 
So I took the axe and the goldpan 
And, I think, the frying-pan, too, 
And hoping that some passerby 
Might jog along through the day, 
I tipp'd the sled for a windbreak 
And started a hole, anyway. 

I chopp'd though I knew I was wasting time — 

Chopp'd till my arms were sore — 

And I chopp'd while the winds from the Summit 

Swept the lake with a rush and a roar; 

I stopp'd when twilight began to fall 

And shadows darken'd the snow — 

Just as puffs from the mountain tops 

Began whispering warnings to go. 



Over Chii.coot in '97 4 



I flagg'd the place with a gunnysack 
Lash'd to a spare geepole, 
And it waved in the breeze of heaven 
From a snowdrift near the hole, 
And with fingers puff' d and aching 
And numb with cold and pain, 
1 hoisted the old army blanket 
And hit the trail again. 

A moment I take to say goodbye 
Ere the snow covers up the dead, 
And a glance I give the gunnysack flag 
That's flopping about overhead, 
I sidle the sled up into the breeze 
And hungry, tired and cold, 
I sprawl across the scanty load 
Headed for the land of gold. 



But the wind was fickle and darkness fell 

While zigzagging to and fro, 

So I dump'd the sled when 1 struck a drift 

And burrow'd into the snow — 

At dawn of day from old Chilcoot 

There came a gentle breeze, 

That fill'd the sail and held all right 

Till I made the stunted trees, 



Over Chilcoot in '97 5 



Many things I forget as the years roll on 
Since I took in that wild-goose chase, 
Yet I still have in mind that hole in the ice 
As well as that frozen face — 
They live in memories tinged with regret 
Though they cling to the good old time 
When at forty below I camp'd in the snow 
Siwashing above timber line. 



"^p 




LANDING IN DAWSON* AT MIDNIGHT, JUNE 21 



A Cleary Pioneer - - 



A CLEARY PIONEER. 




"V 7 " " talk °f the deeds of the old pioneers 

and laud them to the skies, 
But never a word of the woman 

or the grave wherein she lies, 
Who's asleep out here on the hillside, 

where people as they pass, 
Oft catch a glimpse of the little grave 

half hidden in the grass, 
That holds the first white woman 

who trod this golden land. 
Who brighten'd the hopes of many 

by extending the helping hand, 
Who went through all that you did — 

camp'd on the same old trail — 
Mush'd in the lead in the wild stampede 

and laugh'd at the icy gale. 



A Cleary Pioneer 2 



There's a picket-fence around her, 

but no sign of slab or stone. 
To tell the name of the sleeper 

or explain why she's alone — 
Alone out here on the hillside 

in a little fenc'd-off plot, 
Slumbering on in silence, 

by everyone forgot, 
With none to plant a flower 

or shed a single tear 
As tribute to the grit and nerve 

of this Cleary pioneer, 
Who went through all that you did— 

camp'd on the same old trail — 
Mush'd in the lead in the wild stamp 

and laugh'd at the icy gale. 




The Oldtime Prospector 1 



THE OLD TIME PROSPECTOR. 



Y\ /hat does the old prospector think 

of Alaska since she's dry? 
Does he prefer ice-cream and lemonade 

to cocktails, beer or rye? 
Does he think the holdup bingle games 

better than those he used to play? 
Or that gambling under cover 

skins the old familiar way. 



The Oldtime Prospector 2 



Does he sigh for the giddy dance-hall days? 

does he miss the Floradora? 
Would he like to whirl o'er the floor again 

with Margie, Kate or Cora? 
Would he like the old times back again 

when everything came his way? 
Or would he rather bum around 

the way he does today? 

What does he think of all the bull 

that's peddled in his ears, 
About gold enough in the tailings 

to run the camp for years? 
How does the sidepay strike him? 

does he rub his eyes and stare 
When he's told the claims are just as rich, 

in fact richer than they were? 



And how about the choochoo 

and the railroad to the sea? 
Has it got as many charms for him 

as it has for you and me? 
Perchance he recollects the same 

once heralded the decay 
Of many a placer-mining camp 

that flourished in his day. 



The Oldtime Prospector 



What does the old prospector think, 

or does he give a rap, 
For the things that's going to happen 

to keep Cleary on the map? 
Does he think he'll get another fling 

if all this comes to pass 
Ere they run him in at Sitka 

and turn him cut to grass? 



The Cache 1 



THE CACHE 



(~Yi the Arctic slope of the last frontier, 

close to the rock-fring'd shore, 
Where eternal silence meets at times 

the ocean's drone and roar, 
Nearly hidden in the tundra 

and sheltered from wind and sea, 
Lies the cabin of some old whaler 

fathoms deep in the leaden sea. 

With grub the place was well nigh filled — 
a cache for the whaling fleet — 

A sort of roadhouse, as it were, 
for one to rest and eat, 

The Stars and Stripes waved in the breeze 

and flapp'd against the pole, 

Beating time to the rythmic waves 
and the ocean's ceaseless roll. 



It had a somewhat ancient smell 

and but a single room, 
With a window in the doorway 

looking out en fog and gloom. 
It was adorned with sailor's gimcracks 

the names I can't recall — 
And a famous beauty's picture 

smiled on you from the wall. 

I stay'd throughout the winter 

on this ideal camping ground, 
Cursing the dopy silence 

that always linger'd round, 
Queer shapes appeared in the darkness 

hanging o'er land and sea — 
Spooks from the realm of Davy Jones 

who had it in for me — 

And in this home of shadows 

the long months slipp'd away. 
With the Banshees on the tundra 

growing bolder day by day, 
I'd sit at night in the soft moonlight 

and time and time again, 
I'd shoo the little devils 

away frcm the window pane. 



The Cache - - 



But I lcng'd fcr the time when I'd bid adieu 

to the almost endless nights, 
The Banshees and the little men 

and the crazy Northern Lights, 
I could see them from the window 

set the sky aglow, 
And trail their tinted shadows 

miles through the whirling snow. 

Tonight the wind's a holy fright — 

the snow piles high in the gale — 
Fantastic streaks of green and gold 

tangle up on the drifted trail; 
The old shack shakes in the icy blast 

and one almost hears the moan 
Of the swelling waves that tcpple and break 

and hiss o'er the beach in foam. 

But the cabin's bright in the lurid light 

and glare of the melting sky, 
Sparks like diamonds flash in air 

as the proud old moon sweeps by; 
Clouds of ever-shifting flame 

dangle o'er the frozen sea, 
And the pictured beauty on the wall 

wakens memories of "She.'' 



I fish for my pipe and tobacco, 

touch a match to the whale-cil flare, 
And streams of tinted moonlight 

dance in the crimson glare — 
I lay awake in the shadows 

that pilot in the dawn, 
Stars hang like lamps in the heavens — 

but the Northern Lights are gone. 





So Long 



u ,<? 




